


Definitely Haven, Not Particularly Safe

by AkiRah



Series: Hold The Sky [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair and Surana finally kiss, Cults aren't fun for anyone, Dragon Fight, F/M, Haven, Morrigan picks fights, The Gauntlet, The Urn of Sacred Ashes, matters of faith, platonic backrubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-25 03:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4944475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkiRah/pseuds/AkiRah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surana and the others make their way to the small, secretive town of Haven in the Frostback Mountains where they undergo trials of skill, faith, and friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Kiss, A Riot

Her legs were sore from walking but they were making adequate progress down the King's Road towards the Frostback mountains and the dot Genitivi had marked _Haven_ on his map. She was doddling, leaning heavy on her staff and listening to her companions bicker about where to set up camp, Wynne was swapping stories with Bodhan while Stanton whined and hopped around Morrigan's annoyed feet. 

They made camp in the Bannorn, far enough off the road to not be instantly apparent to wandering eyes. Rainclouds gathered, looming with a real enough threat that Surana actually set her tent up. She was flopped over on her belly beside the campfire, waiting for the drops to become reality when Zevran came up and settled beside her. He began to knead his long fingers into the meat on either side of her sore spine and laughed aloud as she whimpered and tried to simultaneously shy away and press up into his hands. 

"Maker," she breathed, "I didn't even _know_ how sore I was."   
"Yes, well it was evident to any of us with eyes." Zevran chortled. "Though I believe this knot right here," he poked a tender place just above her right hip, "may require extra attention.”

Surana gasped and arched, pressing her face into the pillow of her forearms. Zevran laughed and kneaded his knuckles into the knots above her hips. Above her, someone cleared their throat and Surana lifted her head and met Alistair’s eyes with her own. He looked confused and just to one side of displeased, but he smiled back at her and knelt down beside them. 

“What are you doing?” 

“A massage,” Zevran replied, “surely you’ve had one.” 

“Uh . . .no.” 

Zevran gasped and brought his hands up off of Surana in mock disbelief eliciting a vaguely affronted noise from her until he went back to working on her spine. She shifted a little and stretched so she could rest the tips of her fingers on Alistair’s when he sat. The pressure Zevran was using hurt but in a way that made her legs weak and her brain fizz over and when he finished she didn’t hurt so much. 

Zevran looked indecently pleased with himself. “It’s good to know I can still make a woman melt with nothing but my fingers.” 

Surana, missing the joke _entirely_ , rolled her neck and shoulders, amazed at how much better she felt. 

Alistair snorted a little and squeezed her fingers in his before letting her hand fall away. 

Zevran’s smile turned wicked and playful. “Intending to share Neria’s watch, Alistair?” 

“I had been considering it, yes.” Alistair crossed his arms over his chest and shifted uneasily. “Unless, you don’t mind do you?” 

Surana raised and eyebrow at the question and shook her head. “Course not.”

* * *

They sat together under the flap of her tent when the rain started, Stanton curled around behind them with his chin on his forepaws, dozing off. 

“So, Neria.” Alistair’s hand curled over hers while they stared into the wet, empty world outside the tent. “All this time we’ve spent together, you know: the tradedy, brushes with death, the constant battles with the Blight looking over us. . .”  
“What about it?” She asked, taking her braid down and letting it fall in long waves over her shoulders so she could brush it out.   
“Will you miss it once it’s over?” 

Surana snorted a laugh and grinned at him, giving a small roll of her eyes. “Mmm, yes, makes me tear up just thinking about it.”   
“I know!” Alistair grinned back. “No more running for our lives. No more darkspawn. No more camping in the middle of nowhere.” He gestured outside where the rain started falling with greater urgency.  
“A travesty indeed.” Surana nodded, twisting so she could reach around Stanton for her hairbrush.   
“I know it, it’s might seem . . . I don’t know, strange.” The humor dropped out of Alistair’s voice and Surana looked back from where she was digging in her pack to make sure he was alright. “But I’ve, maybe it’s just with how much time we’ve spent together but . . . do you remember what we talking about at Redcliffe?” 

Surana’s cheeks flared red as she recalled the conversation and her mouth went a little dry. Was he saying what she _thought_ he was saying? Everyone else was asleep, it would have been easy to just scoot back far enough, moving Stanton and letting the tent flaps fall closed while they made that discussion a reality. 

She thought of Cullen and felt a stab of pain. 

“Of . . . of course I do.” She managed, teeth set to worrying her lower lip. It would be alright if it was Alistair, wouldn’t it?

“We haven’t known each other very long, I know, er, not in the scheme of things but I . . . care . . . about you. And, well, I keep hoping that--when this is over--I guess what I mean is that I’m hoping you feel the same and that when this is over we could--”  
“Give it a go?” Surana finished for him, her heart hammering away. She wanted to spit out that she didn’t care about _later_ , that she could have him out of that armor in under a minute if he wanted.   
“Yes.” Alistair exhaled as though having her actually say it was a huge weight off his chest. “I know you’re still not over Cullen but--” 

He wasn’t wrong. Cullen stuck in her heart like a barbed thorn. 

But that didn’t stop her from curling both hands around Alistair’s cheeks and smiling when he met her eyes. “ _Yes_ ,” she leaned into him, “I care about you too, Alistair.” 

Surana aimed the kiss for the corner of Alistair’s mouth and her eyes went wide a half-second before closing in delight when he turned his head to make it a proper kiss. It was slow and a little awkward, but it was a first kiss and from her limited understanding, that was how first kisses tended to work. She sucked hard on his lower lip as they pulled away and rested her forehead against his, blushing and giggling. 

“That . . . that wasn’t too soon, was it?” Alistair asked, sliding his hands around the small of her back and tugging her lightly, but insistently into his lap. 

She shook her head furiously. “No. Not at all.” She resisted by inches kissing him again and pushing him back over Stanton. “Of course, it makes putting things off until _after_ the Blight a little more difficult.”   
“Oh _does_ it?” Alistair grinned up at her, his nose touching hers.   
“Mmhm.” She nodded and kissed him again, short and sweet before pushing off his lap and stepping into the rain where the cold could soothe the small fire in her skin. “Because _now_ I’m going to want more.” She gave a theatrical sigh and shook her head, joining him in the tent once more. “Thank you, Alistair, for being patient with me.” She folded her knees to her chest. “It just seem like I’m dragging my feet about this whole Cullen thing but I--”

He curled an arm around her, tilting her face back towards his for another tiny kiss. “It doesn’t. I actually, taking things slow is . . . nice. Comfortable, I guess.” Alistair combed his fingers through her hair. “Maker’s breath, but you are beautiful.” 

Surana brought both hands up to cover her cheeks. “Th-thank you.”

* * *

They passed the Brecilian Forest and detoured for an hour to make sure the elves were preparing and, to Lanaya’s delight, offered spare herbs for poultices, speeding preparations by enough that Surana allowed herself hope that they would all be ready when the time came. 

They ate lunch with the Clan and Surana listened to the gossip surrounding Cammen and Gheyna’s unorthodox courtship with a small, proud smile. Leliana was listening to Sarel’s stories with wide eyed attention, her meal mostly forgotten as she drank in stories that never made it to the Orlesian court. Zevran was admiring a very fine blade and comparing it with one of his own. Wynne was threatening to bathe Stanton (again) and he chuffed at her with mild mannered annoyance before making a point of rolling in the mud. 

Surana took her lunch and sat down next to Morrigan, who seemed more at peace in the woods than she had in the city for reasons Surana understood perfectly, even if they stood out again Morrigan’s usual behaviours and love of fine ways to augment her own appearance. 

Perfect, vain little thing. 

They didn’t talk, but Morrigan demonstrated her pleasure at Surana’s company by scooting a whole inch closer while they ate. 

Lunch finished and other business concluded, it was time to resume the long march towards the Frostbacks. Surana was pleased to note that her legs hurt less than they had and she didn’t _loathe_ the idea of continuing the trek. Either being a Warden improved her constitution or, more likely, she was just getting used to walking. 

“So, you met this sibling of yours?” Morrigan addressed Alistair as the party passed out of the forest and back onto the road.   
“Half-sister,” Alistair corrected, looking across Surana’s to Morrigan. “But yes.   
“And she turned out to be an insufferable hag?”   
“Morrigan,” Surana pleaded.   
“You’d have liked her,” Alistair shrugged. “You two have a lot in common.”  
“Maker,” Surana pinched the bridge of her nose and slowed her pace almost imperceptibly so the two would walk _past_ her instead of bickering _across_ her. “Not again.”   
“And you let her berate you, Alistair? Without punishment?”   
“You know, it’s moments like this when I truly appreciate the difference between you and me.”   
Morrigan scoffed. “‘Tis moments like this when I truly wonder at the difference between you and a toadstool.”   
“Have they always been like this?” Zevran asked. 

Sten, Leliana and Surana answered “yes” in unison, joined by Stanton’s affirmative bark and loud enough that both Morrigan and Alistair turned, mouths open to insist that they other had started it before huffing and turning their attention back to the road, purposefully maneuvering away from one another to talk to _someone else_. 

“You have a barbed tongue, Morrigan.” Wynne chided, “Tell me, why do you speak to others this way?”  
“Because she’s a bitch.” Alistair volunteered, earning a smack in the shoulder from Surana and a muttered, if chuckling _be nice_. He rubbed the spot as though it stung and then kissed her temple. Surana flushed and batted at him again.   
“I owe you no explanation.” Morrigan snapped, turning her glare from Alistair to Wynne. “There is no writing on my forehead that says _please guide me!_ ”  
“You’re traveling with these people. It behooves you to be civil.”   
“You are too transparent, old woman. Do not bring up our companions when all you wish is for me to be civil to _you_. I am not one of your Circle apprentices to hang on your every word. I am not Alistair, who sees in you a surrogate mother.”   
“Hey!” Alistair snapped.   
“No,” Wynne shook her head. “It is obvious you are _nothing_ like Alistair.”   
“Take your lectures elsewhere. They mean nothing to me.” Morrigan snorted.   
“Leave her alone, Wynne.” Surana commented. “They’ve been at this since they met, I think they enjoy bickering.”   
“Do not.” Alistair grumbled, utterly unconvincing.


	2. It was warmer outside, in the snow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The town of Haven is rife with cultists and apparently dragons. Not exactly welcoming.

Shivering and tugging the edges of her cloak more firmly around herself Surana took a moment to chide herself for being _surprised_ that the **Frostback** Mountains were covered in snow. It seemed obvious, now that she was looking up at them. They found the path, a narrow, winding cart trail that almost certainly lead up to Haven, slowed slightly by sleet that turned to snow as they ascended. 

Sten looked more and more annoyed as they marched until finally he pulled ahead of the rest and turned, blocking Surana’s path and glaring at her. 

Surana paused and stared at him, confused. “Uh . . . something on your mind, Kadan?” 

“Interesting strategy,” Sten said with no small amount of annoyance. “Tell me: Do you intend to keep going North until it becomes South and attack the Archdemon from the rear?” 

“We’re really heading more West.” Surana tried to deflect with humor. “It’ll never see this coming.” 

“Truly.” Sten’s voice dropped to his original monotony and Surana rolled her shoulders back. “It would surprise _me_ if my enemy counter-attacked by running away and climbing a mountain.” 

At least he wasn’t _outright_ calling her a coward. That was positive. “Saving the Arl is important if we’re going to stop Loghain and stopping Loghain is the only way we can focus _all_ our efforts on the Blight. We need Arl Eamon’s voice at the landsmeet.” 

“Loghain’s army was broken at Ostagar. He is a solitary old man. Why do you fear him?” 

Surana swallowed. Lying to Sten would never be any good. She exhaled through her nose and put a hand on Alistair’s arm to keep him from moving to intercept Sten’s hostility. “He killed Duncan, Sten. Through wit and treachery he killed an entire order of Warden’s and didn’t lose his men doing it.” 

“Revenge will not end the Blight. This is a wasted effort.” But Sten’s anger was dropping and his posture became less stiff. Educating on instinct, rather than ready to brawl. “You haven’t thought this through.” 

“Please just trust me on this.”

“It is not an issue of trust, Kadan,” he said with such certainty that Surana almost smiled. “I trust you with my life, but this is not my life at risk. It is our goal.” 

“A very valid concern,” Surana nodded. “And I’m glad you brought it up. This is something we have to do to _achieve_ that goal.” 

“I have spoken my mind. Let us waste no more time here.” 

“We’ll leave just as soon as we’re finished. I promise. After what we found in Genitivi’s home I don’t want to linger here longer than necessary anyway.” 

Haven itself was a collection of worn looking houses clustered together on the side of the Frostbacks. Surana couldn’t imagine what drove people to want to _live_ here, the ground was hard and unforgiving and, it being the very end of Haring, the snow was a constant, clinging to her hair and her eyelashes and soaking through her cloak. There was a wall around the town, too short to be properly defensive, but it made the whole place feel unwelcoming. 

They were stopped by a guard at the gate, a grim faced man with a unusually stylized chantry symbol on his breastplate. “What are you doing in Haven?” He snapped, not the usual mild irritation she’d come to expect from city guards. “There is nothing for you here.” 

A rather abrupt dismissal. Surana furrowed her brow. “I have business here.” 

“No. You do not.” The guard’s posture shifted, straightening to loom over her. “I would have been informed if someone was expecting a visitor.”   
“You would have been informed?” Surana asked.   
“That’s odd.” Alistair contributed. 

Surana shook her head. “Is there a Brother Genitivi here?” 

“I do not know this Brother Genitivi,” The guard crossed his arms and then scowled, looking hesitant for the first time since their arrival. “But perhaps Revered Father Eirik will know of whom you speak. Unfortunately he’s ministering to the villagers at the moment and cannot be disturbed.”   
“Revered _Father_?” Surana asked at the same time as Leliana. 

Leliana looked shocked. 

“Huh. That’s new.” Alistair added.   
“Isn’t that a--” Surana interrupted herself before asking if that wasn’t a _Tevinter_ thing because the Guard was wearing a chantry symbol, if a strange one, and talking about the Imperial Chantry was never a good idea in mixed company.   
“It has always been thus in Haven. We do not question tradition.” The Guard was on the defense once more, clearly offended that his chantry traditions were being questioned.   
“Are your traditions very different from the rest of Ferelden?” Surana asked before she could help herself. Someone, Zevran, probably, elbowed her in the side.   
“Our ways are not the way of the lowland cities.” There was no small amount of pride in the guard’s voice at that. 

Surana shifted her weight uncomfortably and thought about the dead man in the back of Brother Genitivi’s house. There was more here than met the eye, and the temperament of the guard did nothing to set her at ease. 

“Would it be alright if we lingered to talk to Father Eirik once he’s finished his sermon?” She adopted a warm smile. “We’ll make it quick.” 

The guard frowned again, hesitating and clearly unwilling to act in regards to the Chantry without confirmation from someone higher ranking. He reminded her of a particularly surly templar recruit, desperate in his devotion to duty. 

Not something one tended to see in a man clearly approaching his forties. 

“You may trade for supplies at the shop if you wish, but we do not appreciate lowlanders looking about our home as though it were some kind of zoo. Then I suggest you and your companions leave.”   
“Did it just get colder, all of a sudden?” Alistair asked.   
“I think so.” 

They walked through the unnervingly empty town square, all ill-at-ease and alert. Stanton growled low and pressed his face to Surana’s side until she stroked his ears to comfort him. “Let’s check at the shop.” Surana said, “we were given permission to trade and maybe the shop keeper will be more . . .uh . . . welcoming?”   
“Such a perfect little village, don’t you agree?” Zevran grinned. “Almost too perfect.”   
“Is this place even _on_ a proper map?” Alistair asked, shaking his head.   
“It’s too quiet.” Leliana twisted her fingers together. “I don’t like it.”   
“Neither do I,” Surana assured her. “Let’s find Genitivi and leave.” 

They found the shop and Surana opened the door. She put on the brightest smile she could muster, kicking the snow off her boots before walking inside. The shopkeeper looked up an immediately puzzled. “Who are you, you’re not from Haven.”   
“Surely there must be some _reason_ why everyone keeps informing us thus.” Morrigan huffed, rolling her yellow eyes. 

Surana shrugged and kept smiling, feeling it strain at the corners of her mouth. “No, we’re not. I’m looking for someone, have you seen a man by the name of Ferdinand Genitivi? He’s a Chantry brother.” 

“No.” The shopkeeper answered, far too quickly. “I’ve never heard that name.” 

Stanton whined and Surana set her hand on his head. He chuffed once affirmatively and padded away from her while she kept grinning. Just like at Genitivi’s home in Denerim. “Oh well. I don’t suppose you have any interest in doing business before I leave? I’ve just come from Denerim and we’ll need to replenish our supplies before heading home.” 

_Keep smiling, Neria. Keep smiling._

“We don’t have much, but looking couldn’t hurt.” 

“Thank you.” She slung her rucksack off her shoulders and started to produce some of the sellable goods they had picked up in their travels. The merchant did the same with his goods and they haggled, albeit briefly over price. She focused on necessities until she saw the finely crafted antivan boots and offered coin for them in addition. 

Stanton growled low at a side door and reached up to scratch at it, hefting his whole weight against the wood, barking to alert the party that there was something dangerous on the other side. 

“Get your mutt away from there.” The shopkeeper growled. “That’s not fer customers.”

“He’s a mabari warhound.” She growled back. 

“Something the matter?” Leliana asked, her sweet smile miles more convincing that Surana’s had ever been. “You seem distressed.” 

“I just do--”

“Perhaps he is hiding something in there, no?” Zevran’s grin was wicked. “Some nasty little secret he doesn’t want us knowing?” 

“I don’t give a--”

“Kadan?” Surana looked up at Sten. 

Sten turned to look at her. 

“Break it down.” 

The door splintered apart and the shopkeeper, his hand closing around a knife, lunged for Zevran, frozen by a beam of ice mid leap. Morrigan, her hand still radiating cold, shocked the ice sculpture to pieces and stared apathetically at the frost-bitten, twitching pieces of her victim. She sighed and shook the spell from her fingers. “Tis almost a pity I did not let him stab you,” she told Zevran. 

“It’s because I’m so terribly charming.” He shrugged. 

The body Stanton found in the back of the shop was in worse condition that Genitivi’s research assistant had been. He was barely identifiable as a knight of Redcliffe, the only clue being the armor piled unceremoniously in a corner. He was propped up, missing an arm and a leg with deep gashes under the armpits and near the groin at the artery, drained of most of his blood. 

“Blood magic.” 

Surana nearly vomited. 

She turned away, eyes watering and shook her head. “Take everything worth taking,” she said softly, voice wavering with rage. “Leliana. . . can you . . . say something over him?” She gestured to the corpse and fire flew from her fingers to engulf him. “I think we need _words_ with “Father” Eirik.”

* * *

They neared the Chantry, keeping together in a clustered knot in case of ambush. Singing echoed as they drew close to the old building, the strange symbol Surana had seen on the guard decorating the crimson flags instead of the familiar chantry sun. 

“Do you hear that?” Leliana asked. “It sounds like they’re singing the chant.” 

“It’s a chantry.” Morrigan rolled her eyes. “And it sounds like everyone is inside, how lovely for them.” 

“Sounds like the entire town.” Zevran added.

“I’ve never heard of a town so _entirely_ pious.” Surana gripped her staff more tightly. “They seem like the nicest group of religious murderers. Shall we have a look?” 

She pulled open the chantry door and let herself inside. 

An elderly man in dark robes stood at the front of the congregation. His voice was strong and fervent as it echoed amongst the faithful. “..we are blessed. Blessed for we are chosen to be the Guardians of Sacred Andraste. Do not despair, this duty was given to us, and to us alone. Our Beloved will rise up and we, the faithful will be grant--” he cut off as he noticed Surana approaching. She narrowed her eyes at him and pushed through the throng of _cultists_ to stand in front of him, making up for her unimpressive stature with the fury in her eyes. “Ah . . . welcome.” Father Eirik said, not sounding particularly welcoming in the least. “I heard we had a visitor wandering about the village. I trust you’ve enjoyed your time in Haven so far?” 

“I am well past pretending this village is normal.” Surana snapped. “Where is Brother Genitivi?” Her hair started to stick up as static gathered around her. 

“Perhaps.” Father Eirik looked entirely unconcerned, his eyes glazed over with fanaticism. He raised his voice as though still preaching. “But to stay hidden is to be protected and we must protect our charges at any cost. We owe you no explanation for our actions, to fail Her would be the greater sin. All will be for--” 

The last words were sputtered as Zevran, silent as the snowfall, had crept around behind Eirik and parted his throat with a quick and gentle press of his dagger. There was a collective gasp and the congregation fell on them, biting and kicking, throwing fists and elbows and scrabbling for weapons when they found them. 

The townspeople either fled or died and Surana’s guilt over the matter was cut short by the high roar of several dragonlings as they emerged from a side room, whipping their tails and raking with their wicked claws. 

“Maker!” She fired lighting into their direction and glowed with healing light, passing strength to her injured companions until all the dragonlings and cultists in the Chantry were dead. 

She leaned heavily against Alistair and caught her breath. “Cultist. Dragons. Ancient mythical artifacts.” She shook her head. “At least I’m not _bored_.” 

Her moment of peace was interrupted by shouting. She investigated and found that there was a door concealed to look like part of the wall. She opened it and found a man, one leg out at an unnatural angle, his face a masterpiece of bruises, calling for help. 

Surana hands glowed green, no longer patient enough to wait and _ask_ if the injured party was willing to be healed with magic. The energy flowed from her into him and he winced as the bone started to knit back together. 

“Brother Genitivi?” Surana asked, clinging to the last strands of hope. “I’m Neria Surana, a Grey Warden seeking to heal Arl Eamon. Are you alright? Well . . . considering, anyway.” She offered him a hand up. “Also, real quick, I’m a huge fan of all your work and just . . . wow.” 

Genitivi managed a shaky smile, favoring his uninjured leg heavily. His right had been broken too long for the magic to _truly_ heal, but he could stand on it and while he would limp for the rest of his life, at least he could _walk_. 

“You have no idea how glad I am to see someone who _isn’t_ from this village,” he said. 

“I can hazard a guess,” was Surana’s shrugged reply, the relief at finding him _alive_ momentarily overshadowing the rest of the horror. 

“I can’t rest now, though.” Genitivi shook his head. “I’m so close. The Urn is just up that mountain.” 

The party drew a collective breath. 

“Thank Andraste,” Surana exhaled for everyone. “I need to find the ashes. Arl Eamon is getting sicker by the day.” 

“The Arl is sick?” Genitivi looked briefly panicked, “Will he live?” 

“That’s the idea. He was poisoned under Teryn Loghain’s orders.” She thought back to Jowan, hopefully still safe in his cell. “I need the ashes to cure him.” 

“Politics. Never did anyone any good.” Genitivi supported his weight against the wall until Stanton brought him a stick to lean on. “Haven lies in the shadow of the mountain that houses the Urn.” Genitivi started to explain, his voice dusty and dry, but comforting, much as Rupert’s had been. “There’s a ruined temple built right into the stone, the door is always locked but _I_ know what the key is. Eirik wears a medallion that becomes the key, I’ve seen what he does with it.” 

“This medallion?” Zevran held the pendant up. 

“Yes. Take me to the mountainside and I will show you.” 

“Nonsense.” Morrigan scoffed. “Just show us how it becomes a key, old man.” 

“Are you certain you can make this journey?” Wynne asked. “Your leg is no trifling injury.” 

“It is not that far, and for the Urn . . . any pain is worth enduring.” 

“This is his life’s work,” Leliana pleaded. “He may lean on me if it helps him.” 

Surana nodded. “Of course. Let’s go, before more cultists show up.”


	3. Draconic Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The passage through the mountain to the Urn of Sacred Ashes is chock full of traps, cultists, dust and, surprisingly, dragons.

Genitivi gave directions up the mountain to the hidden entrance, leaning heavily on Leliana the whole way. Surana hovered near him, listening with rapt attention as he described the history of the place and how his research had lead him here. It was well known that Andraste had been Fereldan, long before Ferelden had properly been established and that he had traced the tribe she hailed from with no small amount of difficulty to this section of Mountain. Most scholars, he explained, attributed Andraste’s birthplace to a more Northern section, near Orzammar _but_ the descriptions carried on in Avvar and Alammari oral tradition favored the Mountains nearest Redcliffe. 

He continued in this fashion until the reached the door and Surana was almost sad to hear him stop mid-sentence to exclaim, “There!” and gesture towards a small, recently restored door. Genitivi produced the medallion and, with some mumbling to himself, turned it into a key and fitted it too the lock. He took a sharp, expectant breath and Surana rocked forward on the balls of her feet. 

Zevran remarked on her childish enthusiasm with a laugh and a small nudge. “It’s rude to hover on the doorstep, Neria,” he said out of the corner of his mouth as the door clicked open. 

Surana giggled and nodded. 

Genitivi gave the door a gentle shove and it opened, revealing a ruined temple, the roof parted in places so light streamed in turning ice and snow to crystal and glass. Surana’s breath, a condensed fog in the chill, caught in her teeth as she moved into what had once been the grand hall of a cathedral. 

“Oh, what I would give to have seen this place in all it’s splendor,” Genitivi sighed, close at her heel and still leaning on Leliana. “Still, sweep away the ice and the snow, and traces of beauty remain.” 

“It’s lovely.” Surana agreed. 

“Stay alert, Kadan.” Sten warned. “We do not know if the cultists remain nearby.” 

“You’re right,” Surana sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re right, of course.” 

_Later_ when this was finished she might be able to come back and look around in greater detail. Maybe even help Genitivi with his work. 

“These carvings were created just after Andraste’s death,” Genitivi said, dusting off a pillar with his hand. “They might reveal things about Her life that we don’t yet know. I think I need more time to study these statues and carvings.” 

“I can’t wait for you, are you sure it’ll be--” Surana shook her head and cut herself off. “That’s a fine idea. Wynne, Zev, Kadan, Leli--?”

Leliana gave Surana such a reproachful look that she cleared her throat and verbally scratched Leliana from the request. 

“Will you three stay with Genitivi while the rest of us go looking for the Urn?” 

The trio nodded their agreement. 

“Thanks. We’ll be back as soon as we can, stay together and try not to get killed?” 

“You do the same.” Sten informed her. He never really made _requests_. 

Surana produced a pencil and some paper from her pack for Genitivi, trying not to look _overly_ excited at the prospect of another book, and then headed deeper into the temple. 

The style was derivative of ancient Tevene architecture (at least from what she knew from books) but with the edges often rounded. She lead the way up a flight of stairs, figuring that the Urn would probably be near the mountaintop, the Sun being such an important part of the Andrastian faith. 

She pictured it: a golden chalice brimming with ash and glittering in the sunlight on some high mountain peak. Impractical and unlikely, the wind would have scattered the ashes and the rain would have soddened them, but it was a nice picture none the less. 

Leliana was practically vibrating with excitement and had to be reminded several times (twice kindly by Alistair and Surana and once with a sharp threat from Morrigan) not to hum as it might attract unwelcome attention. 

Still, all three of them moved with careful awe, trying not to disturb more than necessary until they found an ancient library, the books battered by ice and mostly in ancient Tevene (one or two had titles in the common tongue and Surana stuffed them into her pack before anyone could stop or remind her that they had a mission). Morrigan, though unimpressed by the library, showed great delight in being in a place so long forgotten. Her expression had softened to one of pleased curiosity, if not the outright reverence that both Alistair and Leliana wore. 

Their first real challenge came in the unassuming form of a locked door at the top of two flights of sloping stairs. Alistair tried the handle to no avail and then Leliana knelt down before it, fishing her lockpicks from a pocket and only giving up after she had broken four of them. 

“Perhaps we should have brought Zevran along.” Morrigan snorted, brushing Leliana aside with a graceful wave of one hand while the other charged with magic. “Is he not always describing how nimble and dexterous his fingers are?” 

She threw the force she’d been building at the door and was blown back by the reverb. Surana shook her head to stop any chuckling at Morrigan’s expense. “It’s warded.” She said, placing a hand on the wood and feeling the same aching void that the door to the phylactery chamber had held. “We’ll need the key. Or a key.” She bit down on her lip. “In the tower the key was equal parts practical and symbolic, a mage and a templar had to work together, I guess to demonstrate the circle’s presumptive symbiosis.” 

Surana looked around and saw the brazier, unlit, unusual in a place dedicated to Andraste. “The Brazier. We’ll need to light it. Probably _not_ with magic, seeing as the faith considers magic . . . uh . . . damning. But if there’re villagers around one of _them_ might know how to light it.”

Their intermediary goal decided, they started through the nearest door, which opened into a narrow hallway. 

A side door opened and out charged . . . 

. . . a bronto. 

Surana, at the front of the party, stared at it for a moment.

* * *

She woke up sometime later with her head resting on something hard and pounding. “Sorry.” She groaned as soon as she pieced together what had happened. “Sorry. Bronto. Wasn’t expectin--”

“Shush.” Morrigan scolded. “Drink this. ‘Tis a miracle your skull was not cracked.” 

A potion was pressed into Surana’s hands and she pushed off of Alistair’s lap to drink it. Her headache cleared and she accepted Leliana’s hand up, taking her staff back from Stanton who held it in his mouth. 

“Perhaps,” Leliana teased, “Alistair should walk in front? To avoid you catching more beasts with your pretty face.” 

Surana wiped dog slobber from her staff onto her robe. “I like being in front.” 

“We found the taper to light the brazier.” Morrigan said, holding the thin stick up, “and the pearl apparently required as well.” 

“Excellent, sorry I wasn’t more help.” 

“You were busy being unconscious,” Alistair shrugged. “It happens.” 

They made their way back to the Brazier and Leliana, with all the fervent belief of a child, chanted, “Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity.” 

The fire lit. 

“How’d you know which verse to chant?” Surana asked, having admittedly never paid enough attention to the Revered Mother in the Circle. 

“I did not. It merely seemed the most appropriate,” Leliana smiled into the flames. “And I like the Canticle of Andraste, particularly the later parts, there’s a hope, in the darkness.” 

Surana nodded. 

“Tis more likely that your Chant was unnecessary and the brazier would have lit regardless with the proper tools.” Morrigan crossed her arms over her chest.

“A lot of doors like this include verbal components to the key.” Surana bullshitted, having encountered only one such door previously and privately agreeing that the odds of Leliana just _guessing_ the right verse out of the _entire_ chant when she was chanting in common and the temple was built in the late Ancient period was astronomically small. “It didn’t hurt anything, anyway.”

* * *

The temple was not as abandoned as Surana would have liked. Stanton alerted them to the presence of more cultists deeper into the ruin, growling with his ears plastered flat to the back of his head and allowing them to pre-empt more than one ambush. Surana kissed the top of his head and muttered “good boy” as they caught their breath in a small room. 

He whined at her and nuzzled against her chest before they started walking. 

“Something’s bothering him.” Surana told Alistair as they found a set of stairs that lead out of the ruins and into natural caves. 

Stanton whined. 

“Might be the smell.” Alistair coughed. “This cave smells foul.” 

Surana sniffed and immediately regretted it. “Smells like a lair of some sort. Rank, like . . . meat?” They kept moving. “And soot, which given the ash wraiths we faced a little ways back I can understand but . . . there’s something . . . familiar? About this?” 

Stanton whined again and then growled. 

“It smells like dragon.” Morrigan said, crossing her arms. “Though more concentrated as it tis within a cave rather than in the air.” 

Surana pinched the bridge of her nose. “Andraste, what have we stepped in.” 

“Not _literally_ I hope.” Leliana checked the bottoms of her boots. 

“Not literally.” Surana confirmed, “yet, anyway. Why the flames is this cult hanging out in a dragon-infested mountain?” 

“I imagine we’ll find out.” Alistair shifted his grip on his shield. “And I bet five whole sovereigns we won’t like the answer.” 

“I don’t tend to take sucker bets.” Surana sighed. “Let’s keep a move on.” 

They walked a ways further and found their way into a feeding room, clearly designed to half-train the growing drakes. She dove for cover out of the way of a drake’s fire breath and responded with a cone of cold, freezing the reptile in place just long enough for Alistair to jam his sword into the relatively tender meat of its lower palate and up into the skull. 

Behind her, Morrigan’s lightning wove itself around Leliana’s arrow as Leliana took out the second drake’s eyes with needlepoint precisions and rapid aim. 

“The leather’s supposed to make very fine armor,” Leliana sighed. “If we had time to take and skin them.” 

“You’re not wrong.” Surana nodded. “Maybe we can tell someone and they can make it up here before the bodies go to waste. It’s cold enough there ought to be time.” 

Past the feeding room was the breeding room where they engaged a pack of dragonlings, another drake and (briefly) a distracted mage pouring over a book. Surana pinched an egg for study, tucking it carefully into her pack and wrapping it twice in a clean robe to protect it. 

“So, I’d be willing to say that Alistair would have won five sovereigns,” Surana groaned. “But I’m still not sure why this Andraste cult is dealing with dragons. It seems . . . coincidental.” She stroked her chin. “Unless I’m missing something.”

* * *

The “something” she had been missing was named Kolgrim, as it turned out. He announced himself as they entered a wide chamber. He was a few inches taller than Alistair and just as broad in the shoulders, resulting in a frame that _towered_ over Surana by more than a foot. His armor was emblazoned with the same strange chantry symbol the other cultists had worn and he had an axe the size of a moderately fed teenage boy in his hands, though lowered so he was clearly not attacking immediately. 

“Stop!” He shouted and it echoed through the room. “You will go not further!” 

“Is that so?” Surana huffed, walking deliberately towards him with her staff lowered, more to prove that she wasn’t intimidated (or at least not intimidated enough to _stop_ ) than anything else. 

“You have defiled our temple! Spilled the blood of the faithful and slaughtered our young!” Kolgrim rattled off the list of charges, not bothering to pause when Surana’s mouth formed a confused “O” about the aforementioned _young_. “No more. You will tell me now, intruder, why you have done all this. Why have you come here?” 

Still stuck on trying to figure out what _young_ she had slaughtered, Surana stared up at the giant of a man and tightened her grip on her staff. 

“Who are you people?” 

“I am Father Kolgrim, leader and guide to the Disciples of Andraste. Kill us, and you will face Andraste. She will smell our blood and the blood of Her children on you and Her wrath will be great.” 

Surana stared. She looked over one shoulder, foolishly taking her eyes off of Kolgrim to make sure that everyone else had _heard_ that before she turned back. “Andraste’s dead.” 

“Beloved Andraste has overcome death itself and arisen in a form more beautiful and radiant than you could ever imagine!” Kolgrim roared. “Not even the Tevinter Imperium could hope to slay her now. What hope do _you_ have?” 

That was admittedly interesting, but also _decidedly_ heretical and more importantly, insane. “You’re saying that Andraste, Bride of the Maker, has overcome death, become so mighty that the _entire_ nation of Tevinter could not defeat her, and has chosen to live sequestered on a mountain rather than helping people? And you think I’m going to believe any part of this insane theory beca--”

Her sentence was cut off as Kolgrim struck her hard in the face with his pommel, breaking her nose and sending her sprawling backwards. 

“You know nothing!” He raised his axe above his head. “To Arms My Brethren!” 

Surana blinked away the tears the blow had caused and threw her arms into the air, channeling as Alistair and Stanton darted past on either side of her. She paralyzed the mages and other cultists, but the drakes and Kolgrim (granted some resistance from his armor, she assumed) kept moving. Alistair was borne to the ground under a full grown drake, his shield up to protect his face as the beast snapped down trying to bite until Morrigan tore the dragon’s life force from it, wrenching blood past bone and scale with a twist of her elegant fingers in a way that would have made Surana instantly uncomfortable if it hadn’t been directed at a dragon. 

Stanton growled, drawing Kolgrim’s attention away from Leliana so she could dart behind cover and fire arrow after arrow from relative safety, screaming as a ball of lightning, only mostly deflected, sent spikes of agony down her bow arm. 

Surana kept her focus on holding the other mages and cultists, forcing them into a deep sleep and then twisting their nightmares around them so they barely felt it when fire flew from her fingertips, the stream interrupted when the shaft of Kolgrim’s great axe struck her and nearly shattered her leg. 

Eventually, though, they won. Surana, barely able to keep her eyes open thanks to the swelling in her nose, gathered soft green light around them to soothe their injuries while Morrigan drained and distributed potions. 

“How much do you want to bet this “Andraste” is a high dragon?” Alistair asked, wincing as Leliana helped apply a salve to his temple. 

“Maker no.” Surana whined. “I don’t want to fight a dragon. Not a big one. I didn’t want to fight the littler ones, or bloody _Flemeth_.” 

Morrigan shifted uncomfortably and Surana shot her an apologetic frown. 

“Alistair,” she turned her attention up to him. “You and Leliana should head back now that we’ve dealt with the cult, or at least _most_ of this cult. If there _is_ a high dragon on the top of this mountain we’re going to want to tackle it as a group or think of a way around it.” 

She reached up to touch her nose, now mended but still tender.

“Both of you go,” Morrigan said. “The dog and I will stay here with Neria.” 

Leliana looked briefly conflicted, but nodded. Morrigan was the least injured and Surana was badly off, though in no danger. It made sense. “We’ll hurry back.” 

“Please do.” 

Alistair and Leliana left and Morrigan, more comfortable with fewer people around, settled to sitting beside Surana. She produced a cloth from her pack and got it damp with magic before offering it over. “Your face is covered with blood. If you clean it _before_ it goes tacky it will hurt less.” 

Surana chucked, hissing with pain as the breath passed through her injured nose. “You’re not wrong about that.” She carefully cleaned the blood away, grateful that it was still wet enough that she didn’t need to scrub and thereby exacerbate her nose. 

“Would it not have been the prudent thing to play along until we were out of harm's way?” Morrigan asked. “To play the convert, wide-eyed and breathlessly desiring to see this risen Andraste with your own eyes and attack at _our_ leisure?” 

Surana shrugged. “Probably. It didn’t occur to me. And even if it had, do you think either Leliana or Alistair could have run with that lie?” 

Morrigan frowned. “A valid point.” 

“Though you’re right, that definitely would have been the safer option and my nose wishes we’d thought of it earlier.” Surana smoothed her hands over her braid and leaned back as Stanton curled behind her. 

He rested his head on his forepaws and looked up at Morrigan expectantly. 

Morrigan’s frown deepened. She crossed her arms and glared at him. “ _You_ ate my entire bag of herbs, foolish dog. Do not think I am unaware of where it went.” 

Surana shifted gingerly to look at her dog, not that it was necessary. When Stanton lifted his head to whine at Morrigan his ears were level with hers. “He did what?” 

“Ate my entire bag of herbs. ‘Tis fortunate I had spares.” Morrigan’s nostrils flared as she snorted at Stanton. “Several of those herbs were poisonous. You should be pleased they did not kill you.”

“You were eating poisonous herbs?” Surana stared at Stanton. “What possessed you to do _that?_ ”

Stanton answered with a bark and a quarter tilt of his head to the left. It meant very little beyond “I am unrepentant” to Surana, but Morrigan huffed a small nearly amused breath and shook her head. “Do not be ridiculous. I am certainly not going to give you more.” 

“Some of it was _poison_.” Surana chided. 

Stanton whined and extended one paw towards Morrigan. 

“You have some nerve, creature,” she scoffed. “And your breath leave much to be desired. Leave me be.” 

Stanton whined again and dropped his head back onto his forepaws. 

“We shall see. I promised nothing.” Morrigan grumbled. 

Surana shook her head, deciding not to comment on the fact that Morrigan was having a perfectly coherent, and surprisingly civil, conversation with the dog. “I didn’t know he was causing you so much trouble.” 

“Ha.” Morrigan snorted without any real venom. “He left a half-eaten hare in my unmentionables.” 

“ _Stanton_.” 

Stanton whined. 

“I guess he was trying to give you a gift?” Surana ran a hand over her braid and ran the end of it over her own palm. She grinned. “Or maybe he just thinks you need more meat on your bones.” 

Morrigan rolled her eyes but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I value your _dog’s_ opinion of my figure only slightly more than I value _Alistair’s_. And I believe I have enough meat when it counts.” 

Surana carefully bit back on agreeing, unsure of how Morrigan would react to knowing that Surana thought she was unabashedly the prettiest woman she’d ever met and that occasionally if Alistair wasn’t walking in front of her and Morrigan was Surana’s eyes would settle on _Morrigan_ to improve the view for a moment. 

_Instead_ of embarrassing herself, Surana just said, “Stanton, I think you might be too smart for your own good.”

“He’s just manipulative,” Morrigan corrected. “I can tell. I do it too.” 

Surana’s laughter was joined in bouncing off the cavern walls by Zevran’s voice down the passage way. 

“Sounds to me like they’re alright,” Zevran said as he came into view, Alistair and the others behind him. 

Morrigan stood, straightening and standing away from Surana as though their moment of closeness had never happened. Surana chose not to be surprised _or_ offended, and instead just clung to Stanton’s muzzle as he stood up, using him to as extra support, her knees shaking and sore. 

“You’re hurt,” Sten chided. Zevran looked a half-breath from actually _fretting_. 

“Nothing debilitating.” Surana assured them, but she didn’t complain when Wynne sat her back down and set to ministering to her injuries. “Did they tell you three about the dragon?” 

That got everyone’s attention. 

“Come again?” Zevran asked. 

“The dragon.”


	4. Trials of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana enters the Gauntlet

They waited long enough for the poultices and potions do work their magic and came up with a basic plan in case of dragon. Surana enchanted everyone’s weapons with ice. Dragons were reptiles, technically, and while the fire in their stomachs (assuming this was a Ferelden Frostback which would make sense but none of the books on draconology in the tower had been well-translated or coherent and Maker why did it have to be a _dragons_ ) kept them from remaining frozen for long, ice would likely do more damage than fire. 

The drakes and dragonlings had been difficult enough and they didn’t _fly_ , but Flemeth had. She chewed on her lower lip and wished she had a more coherent plan. But her companions were skilled. 

This could work. 

Or they would all die burnt to tasty crisps on the side of a mountain and Ferelden would fall to the Blight. 

She exhaled slowly. There was no point in worrying about what would happen if they failed. Panic was a distraction from progress. They had no guarantee that the dragon was going to show, or that it wasn’t so used to the cult that a handful of intruders would go unnoticed. Kolgrim’s blather about how it would smell his blood and the blood of its young had likely been just talk, the same way his claims that Andraste was newly arisen had had to be. 

In fact, she was only _assuming_ that there _was_ a dragon because the only “young” she’d “slaughtered” had been dragonlings. 

There might not be a dragon at all. Or at least not anything bigger than the drakes they’d already beaten. 

The thunder of wings and the roar like metal scraping over stone as they walked out into the open air _quickly_ killed that hope. 

“Now _that_ is Ataashi,” Sten said with unexpected reverence as everyone dove for cover during the dragon’s initial pass. “Glorious.” 

“We’re not planning on . . . actually fighting it, are we? Couldn’t we just . . . sneak around it.” Zevran asked, keeping his voice to a whisper that lost none of its sharp concern. 

“A high dragon is not a joke. We’d best be careful.” Alistair agreed. 

Surana looked up at the dragon, circling around again. “I’m not sure we _can_ sneak past it.” She squared her shoulders. “If we move together we should be fine, bolt for the doors on the other side but . . . if it attacks,” she swallowed. “Wynne I want you to focus on keeping everyone on their feet long enough for us all to reach the doors. Leliana, Zevran, if you can cripple at least one wing that forces it to stay grounded where we have a shot. I’ll alternate between healing and offensive spells while everyone else hacks at it.” She gave Stanton’s neck a small squeeze. “But seriously, only attack if it moves to, no one is getting eaten.” 

They broke cover at a run and weren’t fast enough to reach the far doors before the dragon, red-gold scales sparkling in the setting sun, dove for them. Surana fired a blast of energy at its left wing, knocking it just enough off course that it missed Zevran by inches. He rolled, pulling his knives in a smooth motion and slicing up into the thick leather webbing of the dragon’s wing. 

“ _Fight!_ ” Surana screamed, terrified for a half-second that she and Zevran would be abandoned as the others fled for safety. 

She regretted the doubt the minute she acknowledged it, an arrow whizzing past her head to skip off the high dragon’s scales. Morrigan’s voice, thick with terrible power, echoed around them as the sky darkened and a localized blizzard formed around the dragon, simple ice spells too easily resisted by dragon fire. 

Surana turned her attention to healing, by far what she was best at and Alistair’s wounds closed almost as soon as they formed. He smacked the dragon in the mouth with his shield and stunned it for the half-second Sten needed to wedge Asala between two loosened scales like he was prying open a door. Wynne cast barrier after barrier to absorb the damage the dragon’s buffeting wings would have caused while Zevran nimbly scaled the creature and buried his knives in its eyes, clinging to the hilts as it thrashed and roared and tried to throw him. 

When its neck came low, Sten swung like an executioner and, with equal parts luck, skill and strength, slammed Asala between the vertebra. 

The dragon thrashed, tail whipping wildly as Sten chopped again and again like the dragon was firewood. 

The head came off and Sten wiped the sticky red spray from his face. 

Everyone cheered and took a moment to breathe. Surana tended the injuries that lingered and surveyed the dragon’s corpse, feeling a small pang of regret that they had to kill such a marvelous creature. 

Sten looked _particularly_ pleased with himself. He wasn’t smiling, but he had his shoulders set square and his chest puffed out even as he made careful work of cleaning the blood off of Asala. 

“What does _Ataashi_ mean?” Surana asked as Zevran and Leliana wandered off in source of the dragon’s horde. 

“Ataashi, it is our word for Dragons. It means “the glorious ones”, dragons hold a special place under the Qun.” He nodded respectfully to the dragon’s head. “To slay a dragon is the personification of forging order from powerful chaos. It is a worthy thing.” 

“I’m glad then.” Surana nodded, not quite understanding. “I’m pleased you helped us kill it, Kadan. We would have been lost without you.” 

“Hrmph.” 

Zevran and Leliana returned with armfuls of coin and trinkets, tributes brought to the false Andraste by her cult. At least they would be well supplied for a while now.

* * *

Sten and Morrigan, having no interest in “Andrastian Superstition” waited outside the temple with Wynne who was feeling poorly, the fight with the dragon having taken much out of her and the spirit sustaining her. 

Surana took a deep breath to steady herself and pushed open the door. It was a smaller hall, less ravaged by time and weather. It smelled like smoke, but Surana couldn’t smell the dragon filth that had permeated the other ruin. 

“This is holy ground,” Leliana said. “I can feel it.” 

“It feels like we’ve just entered a Grand Cleric’s bedchambers, where no one has gone before.” Despite his teasing words, even Zevran had adopted a sort of soft reverence to his tone. No one bothered to shush him. 

The small foray ended in a wall with a wide door set into its center. As Surana moved forward, a shape began to shimmer than more fully emerge. Tall and ghostly, a man in full plate with his brow set high like the pictures of ancient alamarri barbarians and his beard braided long enough to tuck into his belt. He did not smile and he was little more than a ghost, but he inclined his head as they approached.

“I bid you welcome, Pilgrims,” the specter said in a low voice. 

“Who are you?” Surana felt herself grow small under his eyes. They were studious and judgmental, but not unkind. They reminded her of Irving, but carried the weight of hundreds of years, instead of only sixty. 

“I am the Guardian. Protector of the Sacred Ashes.” His expression, still judgemental, softened a little and the corner of his worn mouth picked up a little. “I have waited years for this.” 

“For . . . us?” Surana raised an eyebrow, trying not to seem overly skeptical while feeling both cynical and moved. 

“You are the first to arrive in a very long time. It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Sacred Ashes and guide the faithful who come to revere Andraste.” The Guardian said, his tone unhurried and unchanging. “For years beyond counting I have been here, and shall remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea.” 

“The Imperium is no longer the nation it was in Andraste’s time,” Surana said. “Will your duty ever be done?”

“I do not know, and I do not question.” 

_Spirits_ , Surana thought with a small sigh. “What can you tell me about the Urn? I need the ashes to cure a good man.” 

“You have come to revere Andraste, and you shall if you prove yourself worthy.” The Guardian shimmered slightly. “It is not my place to test your worthiness, the Gauntlet does that. Prove yourself and you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a pinch of the Ashes for yourself, it not…” 

He didn’t need to explain what happened to the _unworthy_. Death was a fairly common punishment for failing. 

“Very well,” Surana agreed. “I’m ready to face your trials.” 

“Before you go. I see the path that lead you here was not easy. I see your suffering, and the suffering of others. You betrayed Jowan to Irving. He was almost killed and he lost the one thing that mattered: Lily. Jowan trusted you.” 

Surana dropped the Guardian’s gaze and closed her eyes. She could see Jowan’s face all too clearly. That moment as they left the phylactery chamber and were intercepted by Greagoir and Irving. Betrayal, raw and bitter twisting his usually smiling mouth before he opened his veins to protect Lily and lost her and everything in the process. 

“Tell me, Neria, do you think you failed Jowan?” 

“Yes.” Surana opened her eyes and said quietly. “He was my friend. I should have helped him and Lily escape. Trying to preemptively avenge him by hurting Lily was wrong, and it was Jowan who suffered most for it.” 

“Thank you. That is what I wished to know.” 

Alistair’s hand curled on her shoulder, Leliana’s on the other, both gave a comforting squeeze. “You couldn’t have known,” Leliana said softly. 

“You’re too hard on yourself. No one’s perfect.” Alistair reminded her. 

“And what of your companions?” The Guardian’s eyes slid from Surana and rested on Alistair first. Surana brought her hand up to her shoulder, curling over Alistair’s to help him steady himself. “Alistair, Knight and Grey Warden. You wonder what it would have been like if you’d been with Duncan on the Battlefield. You could have shielded him from the killing blow. You wonder, don’t you, if things would be better had he lived instead of you.” 

“I--” Alistair’s expression crumbled and his hand slid off of her shoulder. “Yes. If Duncan had lived instead things . . . everything would have been better.” 

“And you, Leliana. Why do you claim the Maker speaks to you? The Maker is gone and spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself her equal?” 

_A spirit of doubt,_ Surana realized. _The other side of Faith._

“No I--”

“In Orlais you were _some one_ , in Lothering you feared you would lose yourself and become no one but a drab cloister sister. When the other brothers and sisters persecuted you for what you professed you were hurt, but you also reveled in it.” 

“Are you saying I made it all up for attention?” Leliana’s nostrils flared with offense. “I _know_ what I believe!” But for all her insistence, Leliana’s weight shifted uncomfortably, her eyes threatening to cast to one side in silent shame. 

“And the Antivan elf,” The Guardian’s gaze turned to Zevran. “You have killed many people, but is there any murder you regret more than--”

“How do you know of that?” Zevran snapped, hands jumping for his daggers. 

“I know much. Now, tell me, do you regr--”

“Yes. I do. We are done.” 

The Guardian inclined his head and behind him there was a click and the door unlocked and swung open. “The way ahead is open. Have Faith.” He said before he disappeared. 

Surana rested her hand on top of Stanton’s head. “A spirit of doubt,” she told the others, “to test our resolve.” 

“Isn’t doubt a demon?” Leliana chewed her lower lip. 

“It’s. . . more complicated, I think.” Surana reached back and pinned her braid into a bun. “Do you believe demons would lurk here?” 

“No.” Leliana shook her head. “I do not.”

* * *

The next room was wider, with alcoves set along the sides and ghostly figures standing in each one. “More spirits,” Surana said under her breath. She didn’t feel _fear_ , but apprehension hung on her every movement as she approached the nearest figure. 

The first ghost was an alamarri woman, bare-breasted wearing only a skirt of animal hide, her chin was held high and her cheeks were ruddy with tears. “Echos of a shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come. Thought’s strange sister in the dead of night is swept away by morning light. Of what do I speak.” 

_Riddles,_ Surana thought, _Just like Sloth had asked._ She mulled the question over for a moment. “Dreams,” she said aloud.

"A dream came upon me as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told of her life and of her betrayal and death. I am sorrow and regret. I am a mother weeping bitter tears for a daughter she could not save." The spirit said. 

“Brona,” Leliana supplied helpfully, “mother of Andraste.” 

“I grew up in the Circle,” Surana said. “I’m _well_ acquainted with the story. Though they always gloss over how Andraste _became_ a slave.” 

“True. The accounts vary.” 

They moved to the next asked, a girl, Andraste’s childhood friend Ealisay who spoke of music and to Shartan who asked about home. Riddle after riddle they made their way through the room of ghosts in a slow processional. 

“Were riddles a hobby when you were growing up?” Zevran asked as they reached the door.

Surana shrugged. “Rupert liked to ask them, he said it kept us sharp and we could test each other when he was away. I liked to pose them to the templars, usually they told me to shut up and go away but--” Surana swallowed and blinked away the hint of moisture. “Whenever I asked Cullen he’d try and figure it out. Once or twice he asked me one instead.” 

“You must miss him.” Zevran looked like he almost regretted bringing it up.

“Doesn’t matter now.” 

“I think it might.” Alistair pointed ahead of them through the now opened door and Surana rubbed her eyes to clear the vision in front of her. Kneeling before the statue of Andraste in penitent prayer was Cullen. He flickered, almost translucent but with more substance than the other specters they’d seen and even the Guardian at the entrance. 

Surana pressed her hand to her mouth and could taste the kiss of the last demon who had worn Cullen’s shape. She wanted to turn back, but couldn’t. Eamon needed the ashes and Ferelden needed Eamon. It wasn’t Cullen, it was just another test. 

The gauntlet was in under her skin. 

“You all can see--”

“Yes.” 

“Andraste preserve me.” Surana bit down on the inside of her cheek and felt exposed and naked in front of her companions as Cullen stood and turned to face her. “Learn any new riddles?” He asked her, the familiar smile curving on his mouth. The Cullen she knew, remembered and loved, not the half-starved, raving man broken by torture. 

“You’re not Cullen.” She said softly, but the smile that rose to greet his was meant for the real Cullen, wherever he was, if he even still existed. Just seeing him made her heart feel lighter and she wanted to suspect it of being a trap but he was smiling at her and she . . . loved him, even now. “And yes.” 

“I didn’t really think I’d fool you, but what am I? Am I just another spirit? Are you back in the Fade?” He shrugged, the motion so natural she might have believed it _was_ Cullen. “Honestly, I’m not sure myself. I’m part of the Gauntlet. I’m Cullen Rutherford. I’m _you_. All of these things are true.” 

“And what’s your part in this trial?” 

“To speak and to offer you advice.” Cullen straightened squaring his shoulders like he was addressing Irving or Greagoir, but his chin tilted down so he was still looking at her. “You’ve worried again and again if there was anything else you could have done. If you could have gotten to the tower faster, if you should have stayed behind to help with the reconstruction efforts and even if there was anything you could have said to comfort me. These thoughts will pick you apart, you must let them go. Everything is as it must be. I’m glad you’re free of the Circle even though I can not be.” With his left hand he reached out and touched her face, leaving a tingling sensation when his thumb brushed under her thumb. “I loved you. I wanted you to be free, Neria, be free.” 

The spirit vanished and Neria reached up to the place he had touched. There was a wetness in her eyes but she felt. . . better. 

“Even if it wasn’t him,” she said mostly to herself. “That was nice to hear. It’s nice to believe he doesn’t hate me, if only for a moment.” She looked over to make sure Alistair was alright and his expression was hard to read at first, obviously jealous but then it slid sideways and he gave her an apologetic half smile. 

“I’m sorry,” the words tripped out of her mouth on instinct. “I--”

“Neria,” Alistair’s pinky curled around hers. “It’s fine.”

* * *

In the next room they faced themselves. The disorienting battle was made more difficult by a certain reluctance to injure the people she cared about. She focused on dodging as Alistair ran her down, intending to bash her face in with his shield. 

She scrambled to the side and threw a bolt to paralyze him before she remembered that he was a _templar_. 

The recollection came too late. Alistair slammed the Fade into place and Surana’s stomach lurched and twisted, he swept out with his shield, and missed only because Stanton tackled him to the ground. Surana fought against the urge to vomit and gathered her strength enough to shout. “Alistair! Shut me down!” 

Across the room, the other Surana lurched as the real Alistair locked a cleanse in place. 

Surana, her magic still too weak to be much good, struck out with her staff as the false Alistair flung Stanton off of him. She hit him in the face and dropped, sweeping low with the end of her staff to knock his knees out from under him, leaving him prone while she baked him with fire. 

When she looked up, Zevran was fighting Stanton and Leliana was fighting herself. Alistair’s sword was red and Zevran’s corpse was lying at Surana’s feet. 

Surana, the real one, rushed to Alistair’s side. She grabbed his arm and when he turned, sword raised to strike she shook her head. 

He lowered his sword. 

“That’s the secret.” She told him. “We won’t hurt each other unless provoked.” 

With this knowledge in hand, fighting defensively and shoulder to shoulder they managed to figure out which of their companions were real and which were the dopplegangers. 

Zevran looked down at his own corpse with a morbid smile on his face. “Ah, I am magnificent, am I not?” 

Surana couldn’t help but chuckle. “ _You_ are, certainly. I’m not so sure about him.” 

“You wound me!” 

“Given the bite marks, I’m actually pretty sure that was Stanton.”

* * *

Next they came across a chasm and an illusionary bridge. Working together they figured out how to make each piece solid, moving slowly along the puzzle tiles while Surana put her faith in their skill and wit and crossed, watching bridge pieces become nothing in front of and behind her focusing on the knowledge that they wouldn’t drop her. 

When she had crossed, the bridge became solid and the others joined her. 

“I’m sure there’s a moral here, something about building bridges with friends, and such.” Zevran sighed. “Something poetic, oh well.” 

“Andraste favored the clever, it seems,” Alistair shook his head. “Maker’s breath. I thought for sure we were going to drop you.” 

“I trusted you wouldn’t.” 

“It would have been my fault you know, one wrong step and bam, you’d have been a fine paste.” 

“I thought it was exciting. Can we do it again?” Leliana was beaming. 

Surana laughed. “Only if you want to cross the invisible bridge, Leliana.” 

They continued through the next room in higher spirits, the smell of smoke and ash growing stronger with every step until Surana could feel heat crackling on her skin. Through the next door was an altar and behind it a wall of flame, so high and bright she couldn’t see around it. 

The final trial. 

She looked at the altar and the wall of flame before she knelt and read the words, carved in stone in a dozen languages. “Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and Slave, lord and beggar; be born anew in the Maker’s sight.” 

Surana looked up at the wall of flame and dropped her pack. In silence she tugged off her robe, eyes on the wall of flame before her. She left her staff and her clothes together and stood naked, feeling the fire scald almost painfully warm, and she hadn’t even walked into it yet. 

Behind her she heard the scraping of armor and leather. She turned her head, carefully keeping her eyes _above_ the neckline and smiled to see that the others had chosen to walk beside her into flame. 

Zevran was right, it was all _terribly_ symbolic. 

The flames scorched her as she passed through them, but it was a cleansing pain, the way rubbing oneself raw in a hot bath hurt. When she passed through the other side she felt clean, new, _better_. Her eyes traveled up the stairs in front of her to the Urn where it sat, haloed by sunlight from a far above window, where the weather couldn’t get in to harm the ash. 

“Mother of mercy,” Zevran exhaled behind her. “It _is_ real.” 

Surana nodded in awe and made her way up the steps to the urn. The resting place of blessed Andraste. The key to saving Arl Eamon. Her heart beat heavy in her throat. She took a pinch of the ashes, felt them turn to dust and stain her fingertips as she put some in a leather pouch left conveniently at the Urn’s side, and was deaf to the commentary of her friends. 

She had done it. 

If she could do this, she could do the rest of it. Hope flooded her and Surana grinned. She pressed her lips to the Urn in silently praise to the Maker and to his bride and turned to smile at her awestruck companions. 

They walked down the stairs in silence and dressed, all too in shock to comment on one another’s nudity. 

At least for the moment. 

“We--” Surana’s voice felt small and intrusive. She swallowed and tried again, shaking away her revery. “We should get back to Morrigan and the others. Genitivi will want to know what we found and we need to hurry to Redcliffe for Eamon’s sake.” 

“You’re right.” Alistair said in gritted agreement, grasping the strap of his vambrace in his teeth as he tightened it. 

“You know,” Zevran was grinning salaciously once more. “This makes picturing you all naked so much easier.” 

“Maker, you had to ruin it, didn’t you?” Leliana groaned. “Why are you so terrible?” 

Zevran shrugged. “I think it adds to my roguish charm.”


	5. Heroes of Honnleath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana travels to Honnleath in search of a golem.

Outside the Gauntlet, Morrigan, Sten and Wynne had made camp with Genitivi. Wynne was talking with the scholar about something and Morrigan and Sten were, to no one’s surprise, not speaking. 

Surana claimed a spot near where Sten was sharpening his blade. 

“Did you find what you hunted for, Kadan?” 

“I did.” She tapped the place in her robes where the aches were tucked away safely. “If we leave tomorrow we should reach Redcliffe in three days.” 

“We should not delay.” Sten said, resheathing Asala. “It would be better to leave now.” 

“We don’t know if there are more Dragon Cultists and moving around at night is too dangerous.” Surana shook her head. “Tomorrow morning.” 

Genitivi looked up and his eyes went wide, mouth parting to a warm grin. “You’re back! Did you find it?” 

Surana nodded. 

“What--what was it like? Coming to the Urn, I mean?” 

Surana looked down at her fingers where they were laced together in her lap. “It was . . . intensely personal. Nothing has ever touched me quite so deeply.”

Genitivi nodded and his hands went for the pad of paper he had been recording his notes on. He started to scribble notes she couldn’t make out. 

“You’re very fortunate,” he said kindly as he wrote. “And so am I. Perhaps my research will not seem so much like blasphemy to the Chantry now. We must organize an expedition. There’s so much history here, it must be studied and . . . and pilgrims should be allowed to come to the Urn.” 

Surana frowned at that. There was too much risk of people exploiting the discovery. 

But then again, there was the Gauntlet. It could separate the worthy from the unworthy better than she could. That was it’s job. That was the Guardian’s job. 

“You’re right,” she said at length. “But it’s not _easy_ getting to the Urn itself.”

“If you ever find yourself in Denerim, please come visit me.” Genitivi said. “I will remain here a little longer to catalogue some of these carvings, but I hope to see you again soon, my friend.”

Surana beamed. “I would like that.”

* * *

They reached the foot of the Mountain by nightfall the next day and made camp. While unpacking her bag to find the trinkets she intended to sell Bodhan, Surana found the boots she had purchased for Zevran and grinned. 

She held them childishly behind her back as she made her was over to Zevran’s tent where he was sharpening his knives to razor points and set them beside him. “Zev?” 

“Neria.”

“You remember how you were talking about the boots in the shop window you wanted? Before coming to Ferelden? I don’t know how _close_ these are, but here.” 

Zevran’s eyes closed in delight as the smell hit him and he breathed in deep. “Antivan leather, I would know that smell anywhere.” He grinned and looked up at her. “I don’t know how you found them, but thank you.” 

Surana beamed and reached up to take her hair down. “What are you waiting for? I want to know if they fit.” 

“But I’m not finished admired them yet.” He turned them in his hands, long fingers caressing the heel and up to the eyelets for the laces. “Ah, that smell, like rotting flesh, just like in Antiva City.” He laughed, shaking with every new chuckle. “If only you could find me a prostitute, a bowl of fish chowder and a corrupt politician I’d feel like I was really at him.”

“Redcliffe has fish, and probably prostitutes and Loghain is _like_ a corrupt politician,” Surana volunteered, grinning just as broadly as he was. 

Zevran gave another laugh and changed his boots. He rocked on the ball of his foot and bounced a few times. “And they fit. How marvelous.” 

“I’m delight you like them.” 

She left Zevran to admiring his new footwear and laughed as he marched proudly to show them off to Leliana, the other party member who cared about footwear. Stanton was settled beside Sten, listening to him pray in Qunlat, likely because the growl in Sten’s voice was similar and comforting. 

Wynne was cooking and Morrigan was sitting off on her own, as she seemed to prefer. 

Surana’s eyes fell on Alistair and she made her way over to wear he was inspecting his gear, looking for chinks and cracks that might need to be repaired after their fight with the dragon. She knelt beside him and reached for his hand. 

“Alistair. Can we talk about earlier?” 

He sighed. “I’m trying, I know you have feelings for Ser Rutherfo--”

“Not about that,” she assured him, tightening her grip on his hand. “That’s . . . something we probably _do_ need to talk about but not . . .” she sighed. “It’s about what you told the Guardian.” 

Alistair deflated. “It. . .it was right, wasn’t it? I could have shielded Duncan for that hit. I should have been there.” 

Surana shook her head. “ _No_.” She turned his face to hers with two fingers. “I miss Duncan, but I need you. _We_ need you. You’ve come to mean so much to me and I don’t--I can’t imagine not having you near. Please, Alistair, it’s just--I need you to know that I _don’t_ think things would be better if you and Duncan had traded places. You’re too important.” 

Alistair opened his mouth, possibly to argue, and Surana pressed a kiss to his forehead, curling her arms around his neck and pressing their foreheads together. “Everything else aside, you’re my dearest friend. I’ve never been _allowed_ a dearest friend. Even Jowan and I kept walls up between true emotion. I love you, Alistair. Nothing would be the same without you.” 

He said nothing for a moment but he curled his arms around her and crushed her to him, making it briefly hard to breath. His breath tickled her neck. 

“Thank you, Neria.” He exhaled against her collarbone. “Thank you.”

* * *

“So, you’re female Leliana.” Alistair’s voice had a tendency to carry while they walked and it interrupted the conversation Surana was having with Morrigan about the difference in what Surana learned in the tower and Morrigan’s discoveries through open experimentation. 

“I am?” Leliana gasped and looked down at her breasts. “That’s news, when did that happen?” 

“I just wanted some advice,” Alistair was starting to blush again, the red creeping up his cheeks. “What should I do if I think a woman is . . . special and I--” 

“He must know we all know he’s talking about you,” Zevran said with a pitying shake of his head. 

“And you wish to woo her?” Leliana finished Alistair’s sentence, sarcasm dripping into every word. “Here’s a tip: you shouldn’t question her about her female-ness.” 

“All right, yes, good point.” Alistair started to speed up, trying to put as much distance between himself and his faux-pas as possible.

Leliana sighed and curled her hand around his arm to tug his back. “Why do you ask? Are you afraid things will not proceed naturally?” 

“Why would they?” Alistair sighed, ruffling his tawny hair with one hand. “Especially when I do things like ask women if they’re female and sh--” he bit the end of the sentence off before he could finish it.

“It adds to your charm, Alistair.” Leliana assured him, speaking soothingly. “You’re a little . . . awkward, it’s endearing.” 

“So I should be awkward?” Alistair asked, a playful canter taking up place in his words. “Didn’t you just say _not_ to do things like that.” 

“Just be yourself, Alistair.” Leliana huffed with an exasperated sigh. “You know how to do that, surely?” 

“All right, All right, forget I asked.” 

“The rest of us are certainly trying, Alistair.” Morrigan chipped in because she couldn’t resist. Alistair went from pink to red but she had already turned her attention back to Surana. “As for _your_ question, yes, I could certainly demonstrate the technique I used with my barrier to distribute their energy more efficiently, rather that front loading them.” 

“I would appreciate that.” 

They came across a merchant, clearly down on his luck while they were walking. Surana, with Leliana at her side, approached and the man startled. 

“Are you alright, ser?” Surana asked. 

“I--yes.” He sighed. “You’ll have to forgive me for being nervous, not many people traveling this part of Ferelden these days. Of course, that’s part of my problem, isn’t it? Damned mule got spooked by a wisp and ran off into the woods. Now what do I do?” 

“Maker, that’s terrible.” Leliana gave a sympathetic smile. 

“Just _part_ of your problem?” Surana asked. 

“Not this again.” Morrigan groaned. 

“Well . . .yes.” The merchant pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s been quite the month. Allow me to introduce myself. Felix de Grosbois, merchant and entrepreneur, at your service.” 

“Neria Surana, a pleasure.” 

“I don’t usually take this route, but with the civil war and all I’d hoped for a bit of luck and good weather on the mountain. Sadly, I’ve had neither. This trip has been one miserable disaster after another. I don’t suppose you’d . . . consider helping a fellow out?” 

“No.” Morrigan said immediately. 

“We have business elsewhere,” Sten crossed his arms in agreement. 

Surana looked at Felix, who looked decidedly miserable. She exhaled. “What do you need? I’m not promising anything, but--”

“Worst of all this is this artifact I bought in Jader.” Felix de Grosbois produced a long rod inscribed with dwarven runes. “It’s a “control rod,” I’m told. For a golem. No point in me keeping it, however, as I’ll never get to use it. . . . but maybe you could.” 

Surana looked at the rod and figured that this was probably just Felix’s attempt to ask for charity without asking for charity. It certainly did _look_ legitimate, however. “How much do you want for it?” 

“Nothing.” Felix shook his head. “I just don’t want to lug around something that good be mistaken for a gemstone by some bandit, with the rest of my rotten luck. To be honest I don’t even know if it’ll be useful to you. I paid too much to simply throw it away.” 

Surana nodded. “Alright.” 

Felix handed the rod over. “You’ll find the golem in a village called Honnleath in the Hinterlands on the shore of Lake Calenhad. Just hold up the rod and say “dulef gar.” That should wake the golem up, according the to dwarf I bought the rod from. As long as you’ve got the rod, the golem has to do what you say. It’s supposed to be dangerous around Honnleath with all the darkspawn around, but that doesn’t seem like it’d be much of a problem to you.” 

_Honnleath_. 

“I know where Honnleath is,” she said quietly. “It’ll only be a few hours out of our way and if there _is_ a golem and the rod _does_ work it’ll be worth it.” 

Her throat felt dry. 

“Are you alright, Neria?” Wynne asked. 

“Fine.” Surana lied. “I’m fine. Let’s keep moving.”

* * *

_The dragon circled, too many teeth crammed into its terrible maw. She could feel it in her veins, singing and screaming loud enough to block everything out. Its eyes, pus-laden and glossy met hers. Reflected her back at her. Surana saw her red hair hanging in mangy clumps and her skin breaking apart with boils and bruises and her lips split to spill black blood down her chin. The blighted copy of herself grinned, its tattered lips spreading too wide to reveal her teeth filed down to points._

She woke up screaming. 

“You felt it too.” Alistair was standing over her looking pale and drawn. He extended a hand to her and pulled her too her feet. “Wait--did you feel that?” 

The growl in her veins was stronger. She grabbed Alistair’s hand and screamed, “We’re under attack!” 

The warning was barely enough as the darkspawn swarmed the campsite. 

But barely enough is enough and when the last beast was dead they clustered around the fire, tending injuries with Surana and Alistair listening for the blight in the veins of any of her companions. 

When the crisis was over and they could all breathe more normally, Alistair ran his hand through his hair distracted and tense. “We need to be more careful. It’s like Duncan said, if we can sense them, they can sense us. Camp isn’t safe any more.” 

Surana nodded, still shaking. She curled closer to him. 

“Are you going to be able to get back to sleep?” she asked quietly. 

“Are any of us?” Morrigan asked. 

Surana shook her head. “Let’s pack up now. We’ll rest later. I’ll go make sure Bodhan and Sandal are alright.”

* * *

Honnleath was a small village near but not quite on the shore of Lake Calenhad, a short ride and a moderate walk from Redcliffe. Surana replayed several different conversations with Cullen, his descriptions of the home he only saw rarely but that he loved. The spot by the lake where he would go to be alone, the center of town where the golem had stood and his sister Mia fed the pigeons. 

_Maker_ , she thought, _I’m never going to be free of this, am I?_

As they drew nearer to the village gates, she was immediately grateful the Cullen was in the Circle and not here. That he was spared the sight of the bodies hung for the crows by thick leather ropes from the lantern posts. Smoke rose from the farmsteads and the shops and the only comfort was that they couldn’t hear screaming. 

Given as that likely meant everyone was dead, it didn’t stay a comfort for long. 

She could feel the growling hiss of darkspawn nearby and threw a shield up around the party. Alistair nodded and drew his sword, taking point with his shield while the rest of the party formed up, ready for battle. 

The darkspawn were waiting but without their usually relied upon element of surprise they had only limited tactical ability and Morrigan’s summoned tempest laid out most of the throng and the charging survivors broke upon the party like waves crashing hopelessly into rock. 

“We should see if anyone survived.” Surana washed the blood from her hands with water from the well. “If they have, they need to get to Redcliffe where it’s safe. Safer.” 

Cullen had had a family. A sister, at least, and a brother maybe two. Were they safe? Would she have to deliver more, worse, news to him?

“I agree,” Alistair nodded, his expression determined once more, almost regal. There was such a difference between when he was relaxed and when he was driven, moments like this she could _see_ the king in him. The glimpse of Calenhad as though the Silver Knight had sprung out of a dozen fairy tales to stand at her side. 

She drowned the thoughts in reality. “The Golem’s in the center of town,” she said and jogged forward before anyone could ask her how she knew.

The statue, now known to be a golem, was just as Cullen had always described it. It stood in the center of town, covered in bird droppings and currently blood (a more recent addition, she hoped) with crystals sticking out of its stone “skin” and its arms splayed out like a man screaming at the heavens. 

Children would climb it. Once when he was twelve Cullen had fallen off its hand while trying to catch a glimpse of the templars training by the chantry, he’d almost broken his arm. 

She approached the base and held up the control rod. “Dulef Gar.” 

They waited. 

Nothing happened. 

“Well, that’s that,” she tucked the rod away and felt for the growl of the blight under her skin, thrumming through her veins. “There are still darkspawn about,” she said softly, “that way.” 

She pointed to a cellar and Sten broke the door down. 

They navigated into the dark in single fire, Surana and Zevran at the front, their eyes less bothered by the darkness at first, but the cellar opened up into a wider room, well lit with torches and scattered with papers and books and enchanting artifacts. 

And bodies. 

“Seems the person who owned this cellar was a mage,” Morrigan commented. 

“Brave one, living so close to the bleeding chantry,” Surana muttered. “Stay close.” 

The cellar twisted deeper underground, a place for the mage to keep his books and experiments far out of sight and muffled where the templars couldn’t hear, all while pretending to be a simple miller. Brilliant, really. 

They found the darkspawn, a dozen ugly torn faces, dripping blood and spit and bile from too many too sharp teeth turned to look at Surana, having felt her. The genlock holding a staff threw its head back and howled. 

Surana paralyzed it and Morrigan boiled the blighted blood in its veins. The creature fell dead before it could get its first spell off. 

They slaughtered the darkspawn and Surana approached the glowing purple barrier they had been trying to break through, too similar to Cullen’s prison to be comforting. On the otherside were a half dozen families, trembling and curling together, parents holding their children’s eyes and ears closed to spare them the horror. 

“By the Maker!” A woman looked up as the sounds stopped and dropped her arms. “We’re saved.” 

Surana tried to smile, hoping she looked more comforting that a bloody, elvhen mage had any right to look. 

“You--” a tall man straightened up from where he was kneeling beside the barrier and gave her a hopeful smile. “You weren’t sent by the Bann, were you?” 

Surana shook her head. “Bann Teagan is in Redcliffe trying to hold the arling together while Arl Eamon is ill. I’m Neria, a Grey Warden.” 

“A Grey Warden? Maker, bless our lucky.” 

She bit down on telling him that being driven into a cellar by darkspawn while one’s home burned wasn’t really _lucky_. He didn’t need that. 

“But if you weren’t sent by someone, why are you here? If you don’t mind my asking.” 

Surana pulled the control rod from her robes. “I purchased this, but it doesn’t seem to work. Are you all alright? You should get to Redcliffe, it’s safer there.” 

The man’s eyes narrowed when they fell on the control rod. “ _Shale_ ,” he spat. He brought his hands up and the barrier dispelled, the other villagers fled, hopefully heading for Redcliffe and relative safely. The mage gestured for Surana and the others to follow him. “That damnable golem brought us nothing by trouble. My mother sold the rod years ago, after it killed my father, and good riddance.” 

“Killed your father?” Surana tucked the rod away. 

“My father, Wilhelm, was the advising mage to the arls of Redcliffe and a hero in the war against Orlais. He used his position to protect me from the templars when my own talents developed and what did it get him? One day my mother came out to find my father dead with so many broken bones she barely recognized him and Shale standing over him just like it is now. My father deserved better than that. But if you really want to wake Shale up well. . . it’s yours now.” 

She frowned at that. “Not that it matters, the rod doesn’t work.” 

“My mother likely gave the wrong passphrase when she sold it. She said she didn’t want any one to ever wake Shale again. I’ll give you the phrase if you . . .” he bit his lower lip. “My--my daughter Amalia. She ran down into my father’s laboratory, she got so scared. I don’t know how she made it past my father’s defenses. On of the men tried to go after her. He was killed but . . . but you could find her, couldn’t you?” 

“Of course.” Surana said immediately. “You could have just asked.” 

“I didn’t--she’s everything. My whole world.” 

“I’ll see if I can find her.”

* * *

The defenses, it turned out, were predominantly wraiths that Wilhelm had bound while he was alive. They fought their way through them, following the laboratory further down into the earth until they came to a warded chamber where they found Amalia, her dress dirty from having fallen and her knees scraped up, blonde hair done back in pigtails. 

She didn’t look frightened. 

She was very contentedly petting a tabby cat. _Very_ contentedly. “What do you mean you’ve never climbed a tree?” Amalia asked the feline, “don’t cats like to be in trees?”

Surana narrowed her eyes. That was not a cat.

“Oh! Look, someone’s here.” Amalia turned her attention off the “cat” and stood up. “You have come to play, haven’t you? We’re playing a guessing game. It’s better with more people.” 

Surana shook her head and smoothed the concern from her features. “I’m glad you’re safe. Your father’s worried, we should get back to him.”

“Father?” Amalia asked then shook her head. “Oh. You can tell him I’m alright, maybe he’ll come stay with us too! Anyway, you should go if you’re not going to play, Kitty finds you distracting.” 

“Does she?” Surana narrowed her eyes at the “Cat” again. 

“Kitty is clever,” Amalia returned to petting her. “She says you’ll try and take me back to my father, but I’m not going! She would be lonely!” 

Stanton growled and Kitty’s eyes glowed purple. She stretched and spoke in a lazy, breathy voice. “I would not suggest leaving in such hostile company anyhow, Amalia. Look how they act.” 

“That’s not a cat.” Sten said simply, crossing his arms. 

“Of course she’s a cat.” Amalia scoffed. “She just talks is all.” 

“Talking is simple enough, once you know how.” Kitty purred. 

Demons possessing cats trying to possess little girls, and other situations that needed a delicate hand. Surana exhaled through her nose. “Amalia, we need to return to your father. It isn’t safe down here.” 

“Nothing you say will convince Amalia to go with you.” Kitty’s eyes glowed again. “She loves only me now. I am her friend, while _you_ are just a stranger.” 

“I’m not leaving without her.” Surana crossed her arms and tried to think of a way to force “kitty” into her true shape. If she could _prove_ to a nine year old girl that the cat was a demon, the child would be safe from possession. 

“Then it seems we are at an impasse.” Kitty took a step forward, her tail twitching behind her and one dainty foot raised. “Allow me to suggest a compromise of sorts. Release me, mortal, and let me have the girl. Let us return to her father and leave this place forever.” 

“And you don’t think he’d notice that his darling girl is possessed?” 

“He will see what he wishes to see. Mortals always do.” 

“So, how would I free you if I were inclined?” 

“The mage who trapped me here set wards but only a mortal can approach them. If you could succeed where the girl has failed--” 

Surana nodded, understanding, not agreement. “I’m certain that between Morrigan and I we could manage something.” She smiled. “Morrigan, come with me? I want you opinion on these.” 

The two mages walked to inspect the wards and she gave her friend a hopeful look and Morrigan’s brow furrowed in brief puzzlement and then she _sighed_. “Very well.” 

Together they went to work, twisting and bending, but not breaking the bindings Wilhelm had put into place while Stanton continued to growl at Kitty and Alistair and Leliana tried to talk the very stubborn and rapidly approaching petulant Amalia into just heading home. 

Morrigan and Surana each grabbed the last piece of the binding, feeling it ethereal and slick in their fingers, and they twisted, drawing it closed, closer and closer to Kitty until she hissed and began to change and thrash, the feline form falling off of her and revealing the desire demon for what it truly was. 

The bindings broke under the strain of being man-handled into a different shape and Amalia _screamed_ , “No Kitty! I won’t let you have my body! I won’t!” She dove behind Alistair for safety, unnecessarily as Surana and Morrigan fired in unison and froze the demon to ice, causing it to shatter to pieces as Sten’s sword connected. As Kitty was reduced to small shards of ice and then nothingness, Surana lowered her staff and turned to look a Amalia. “Are you alright?”

“Kitty was a demon?” Amalia asked, her lip quivering. “I . . . I didn’t . . . I want my father.” 

“We’re going back to him now.” Surana offered as comforting a smile as she could manage. “You’re safe.” 

Amalia’s father was delighted to have her safe and handed over the passphrase immediately before scooping his daughter up and thanking them _again_ for saving her. As they turned to leave, Surana couldn’t help herself. 

“I . . . sorry, did you know the Rutherfords?” she asked, eyes dropping to one side as the perceived betrayal of Alistair. “I . . . I was friends with Cullen. I was wondering if his family’s safe.” 

Amalia’s father nodded. “Yes. They left town when the Blight started. I think they were headed for South Reach.” 

“Thank you.” 

She watched them go with a small, sad smile and her hand sought out Alistair’s, trying to find comfort and also convey her apologies that seemingly bloody everything lead her back to Cullen _goddamn_ Rutherford.

“Shall we collect our reward and return to Redcliffe?” Morrigan looked smugly pleased with herself for her work with the binding and Surana couldn’t begrudge her it at all. 

“Yes.”

* * *

Surana stood in front of Shale and produced the control rod again. “Dulen Harn,” she said in a loud, clear voice. Slowly, the stones began to move as Shale wrenched itself free of its presumable _years_ of stillness. 

When it spoke it did so with annoyance, lips remaining frozen and eyes blazing pupiless with white light. “I knew someone would find the control rod eventually.” Shale’s voice had a strange, echoing quality. “And of _course_ it is another mage. That is what it is, yes? Yes. Just my luck.” 

Surana hadn’t been sure what to expect, but open, obvious contempt had not been it. She blinked and lowered the control rod. “Um . . . hello to you too?” 

“I have stood in this spot for oh . . . many, many years. Watching the villagers scurry around me.” Shales said with supreme disgust. It was jarring enough to be funny. 

“Then one might wonder, Golem, why you are not more grateful to the one who allowed you to stretch your legs.” Morrigan scoffed. 

“Another mage. Charming.” Surana got the impression Shale would have rolled its eyes if it had had a proper pair. “I was just beginning to get used to the quiet too. Tell me, are _all_ the villagers dead?” 

“No.” Surana shook her head, immediately feeling that waking Shale up was . . . if not a mistake, at least going to have some complicated consequences. Particularly, if as evidenced, Shale could throw as much shade as Morrigan. 

Figuratively, anyway. The literalness of that statement was already obvious. 

“Some got away then? How unfortunate.” 

Surana’s jaw dropped. “That’s horrible!” 

“Still better than _dull_.” Shale rolled its shoulders, still stretching. “Well, go on then. Out with it. What is its command?” 

“Why are you calling me “it” anyway?” 

“Entrenched sense of perversity.” Shale answered simply and immediately. “The last one who held that damnable rod persisted in calling me “golem.” Golem, fetch me that chair. Golem, crush that insipid bandit. And let us not forget, Golem, pick me up. I tired of _walking_.” Shale snorted.

“Fair enough.” Surana shrugged, unable to argue against that after years of referring to one of the templars as “templar” anytime he called her “mage”. 

‘It . . . does have the control rod, doesn’t it? I am awake, so it . . . must . . .” 

“It does,” Surana confirmed, “right in it’s hand.” She held the rod up where Shale could see it. 

“I see the control rod, yet I feel . . .” Shale paused. “Go on. Order me to do something.” 

“Uh. . .walk . . .over there?” Surana pointed. 

“And . . . uh . . . nothing. I feel nothing. I feel no compulsion to carry out its command. I suppose this means the rod is . . . broken?”

Surana looked at the rod in her hand. “I guess so. Shouldn’t you be happy about that?” 

“Hrm.” Was Shale’s response. “I suppose if I cannot be commanded I have Free Will, yes? It is merely a question of what should I do. I have no memories beyond watching this village for so long. I am simply at a bit of a loss. What about it? It must have awoken me for some reason, no? What did it intend to do with me?” 

“I’m a Grey Warden trying to end the Blight.” Surana answered. “Having a golem seemed . . . handy.” 

“I suppose I have two options, go with it, or go elsewhere.” 

“I would welcome your company.”

“Neria are you . . . certain you want to bring this thing with us?” Alistair asked, eyeing Shale with open suspicion. “It could be dangerous. And Large.” 

“Sten is dangerous and large,” Surana pointed out, “just consider Shale a portable battering ram.” 

“Better it than me, anyhow.” Alistair conceded. 

“I will follow it about then, for now.” Shale said. “I am called Shale, by the way.” 

“Neria. And this is Alistair, Zevran, Morrigan, Wynne, Sten, and Stanton.” Surana gestured to each of her companions in turn. 

“This should be interesting.”


	6. Pinch Me, I'm Still Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana wakes Arl Eamon up, says her last goodbye to Jowan, and a plan for the throne is decided.

Surana was almost surprised to find that Shale, despite being a great deal larger and heavier than the rest of the party (possibly combined) kept easy pace with them as they continued the walk to Redcliffe. Shale was neither kind, nor quiet, but was . . . darkly amusing. It complained endlessly about birds (understandably, when Surana paused to think about it) and “flesh creatures” but seemed genial enough despite its acerbic tone. 

Surana was, simply put, _fascinated_. She hung near the back of the party, watching Shale as discreetly as possible and marveling at how fluid and natural the movements were, even if every step was accompanied by the sound of stone grating on stone. Dwarves didn’t possess magic, but Shale seemed very much magical. As though some foul tempered spirit (perhaps a spirit of condescension? A pleasant pride demon?) had been bound to stone and given time to adjust to the world around it. 

She couldn’t _ask_ of course. It wouldn’t have done to be rude to a nine-foot tall statue who made it clear that crushing heads sounded like marvelous _fun_. 

Luckily, Zevran was less reserved in his nature and took the reigns. 

“I’ve a question for you, Shale,” he asked as they crossed over the river and Redcliffe’s windmill came into sight. “How does it feel to be a giant statue?” 

“What a bizarre question. How else would it feel?” Shale didn’t pause in its movements, but did turn its head slightly to look at Zevran, eyes glowing and lips unmoving. 

“Well, lets see,” Zevran thought for a moment and then, “Does it hurt? Do you feel like you’ve been buried under a pile of rock? Or do you feel nothing at all.” 

Shale made a noise that might have been an exasperated sigh. Did it have lungs? Why did it sigh? “I have nothing to compare it to. How does it feel to be considered an inferior race when compared to others who are just as soft and weak as you?” 

Zevran puzzled at that. “Ah . . . fine?” 

“How very fragile it must be. One touch and its kind crumples, spilling liquid everywhere. No wonder they clad themselves in metal.” 

“It takes more than just a touch, I’m sure--”

Shale hadn’t finished and continued without letting Zevran interject any further. “I feel very solid. And immortal. No putrid liquids to squirt out of me, oh no.” 

Zevran took a solitary step to the left, out of range of Shale’s hand in case the golem made good on the implied threat. “Now that you mention it, I suddenly feel rather like a delicate mushroom.” 

“Please don’t crush Zevran,” Surana piped up from the back. “He’s important.” 

Zevran puffed up a little at that. 

Surana grinned at him and noted that Sten was studying Shale with the intensity he usually reserved for something strange Surana had done that he was trying to unravel. She moved to stand at his other elbow, curious, as he frowned, the edges of his eyes narrowing a little. He didn’t say anything, but would in his own time. She’d come to both appreciate and respect that about him. Sten rarely, if ever, spoke without thinking. 

It set him apart from the others in a way. 

“You are watching me, Kadan.” Sten said, his attention turning off of Shale and onto her. “Why?”

Surana shook her head. “Sentiment. I’m just glad you’re with us.” 

“Hmph.” Sten snorted, but there was a hint of amusement in the corner of his mouth and that was enough for her. 

Alistair had seemed muted since they left Honnleath. He spoke when spoken too and he chatted idly with Leliana or Wynne, but something was _off_ and after the temple she could guess what it was. 

Everytime she thought she was going to be able to move on, the universe reminded her about Cullen. It wasn’t _fair_. 

But nothing had been fair since she was seven. 

She strode forwards and hooked her pinkie around Alistair’s almost defiantly. He paused in his conversation long enough to look at her, confused, then he shook his head with a grin and laced his fingers around hers, chuckling as color flooded her cheeks at the brazen display of affection.

* * *

Any attempt she might have made to talk to Alistair _about_ Cullen and the temple was interrupted, first by a lack of privacy on the road as they walked and then by Ser Perth at the gate, urging them up the stairs to the castle where they were quickly shuffled through rooms and up to Eamon’s bedchamber, just her and Alistair. 

Eamon was going grey, thin and pale and weak, but he was breathing. At least he was breathing. Isolde sat on the bedside, carefully dabbing the old man’s lips with water, her eyes red rimmed from crying. 

“I’ve brought the ashes,” Surana pulled the pouch from her pocket. 

Isolde looked over from where she was desperately trying to tend to her husband and Surana handed the pouch to Teagan. 

They mixed the ashes with water and dripped them into Eamon’s mouth. He began to shift and his eyes moved behind their lids. Surana knelt beside the bed and her hands glowed green, she set them on Eamon’s chest and fed power into him, biting her lip to keep from praying _aloud_. 

Eamon’s skin began to redden with life. He coughed and Surana pulled away, stepping back and reaching with one hand for Alistair. 

“Wh-Where am I?” Eamon croaked. His eyes opened and searched the room until they landed on Teagan’s face. 

The younger lord deflated with relief. “Be calm brother, you have been deathly ill for a long time, do you remember nothing?” 

“I . . .where is Isolde?” 

“I am here, husband.” Isolde’s hand curled over his.

“And Connor?” 

“Connor lives, husband, but . . . but many others are dead.” 

“Dead?” Eamon raised one shaking hand hand pulled it over his face. “Then it was not a dream.” 

“There is much to tell you, brother.” Teagan’s face hardened once more. “Some of it will not be easy for you too hear.” 

“We’ll leave you,” Surana said, squeezing Alistair’s hand in her own. “And discuss what comes next when the Arl is ready.”

* * *

Surana and her companions were summoned to the main hall shortly after dinner. Eamon was still weak, but he was dressed and standing, refusing to lean on his brother, though Teagan stood near at side in case the older man teetered over. Surana noted the age discrepancy between them, Teagan couldn’t have been much more than forty, but Eamon seemed an old man. Perhaps it was merely the illness. 

“I have been told of how much you helped my people and my family,” Eamon said, chin held high. “I am in your debt, my lady. Will you permit me to offer you a reward for your service?” 

Surana shook her head. “I need your help against the Blight. No other reward is necessary.” 

“I understand, but regardless of your motivations I feel you are worthy of a reward. I would like to honor your efforts, nothing more.” Eamon gave her a gentle smile that spoke volumes. 

Mostly it said _”Refusal would be rude”_ so Surana just inclined her head. “As you wish, my lord.” 

“I declare you and those traveling with you _Champions of Redcliffe_. You will always have a place within these walls as honored guests.” 

“Thank you, your grace.” 

“We should speak of Loghain, brother.” Teagan crossed his arms, immediately business like. “We don’t know what he’ll do when he learns that you recovered.” 

Eamon frowned deeply and shook his head as though faced with a difficult problem. “Yes. We must deal with Loghain. I’ve known him a very long time, he’s a reasonable man; one who never wanted power.” 

“I was _there_ , Eamon,” Teagan insisted. “When he announced that he was taking the throne. He is mad with ambition.” 

“Mad indeed.” Eamon nodded. “Mad enough to kill Cailin, to attempt to kill myself and destroy my lands. He is instigating a civil war while the darkspawn are on our doorstep.” Eamon eased himself into a chair with an audible wince. “Whatever happened to him, Loghain must be stopped. What’s more, we can scarce afford to fight this war to its bitter end.” 

“That’s true.” Surana ran her hands over her braid and chewed her lip. “Can you unite the nobility against him?” 

“I could unite those who oppose him, yes.” Eamon said, bringing hands together and resting his chin upon his knuckles. “But not _all_ oppose him. He has powerful allies. We have no time to wage a campaign against him. Someone _must_ surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance at fighting the darkspawn.” 

Indignation flared up in Surana’s chest. After everything that had happened was Eamon about to suggest that they let Loghain _win_? She wouldn’t stand for it. Not after everything that Loghain had done. Not after his support of Uldred at the tower or dragging Jowan into the plot to poison Eamon. 

“Loghain must capitulate, then,” she said through gritted teeth. “We will _not_ yield.” 

“I agree,” Eamon nodded. “Loghain will pay for his heinous crimes. But our _armies_ must be reserved for the darkspawn, not each other.” 

“You’ve lost me,” Surana admitted. “Politics wasn’t a major focus in the circle.” 

“I will put forth word about Loghain’s crimes, but they will be claims without proof--”

“ _But_ \--” 

Eamon held up a hand to stop her from interrupting further. “Those claims will give Loghain’s allies pause, but we must present an alternative. Someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain’s daughter. The Queen.” 

All eyes turned to light on Alistair. Surana reached for his knee under the table as he gave her a wide-eyed and pleading look. 

“You intend to put Alistair forward as king?” Surana looked back at Eamon.

Eamon nodded again. “Teagan and I have a claim through marriage, but we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain. Alistair’s claim is through blood.”

“What about _me_?” Alistair demanded. “What about what _I_ want?” 

Eamon looked at Alistair, his gaze hard enough to pierce steel, but then it softened gradually and he exhaled. A father once more. The same man who and pieced together a broken amulet for a ten year old sent away to appease an angry wife. “You have a responsibility, Alistair. A duty. Otherwise I will have to support Loghain for the sake of Ferelden. We can not be divided in face of the Blight. Do you understand?” 

“I...but I…” Alistair huffed and looked down at the table, his leg moving away from Surana as he withdrew sullenly into himself, ashamed of his outburst. “Yes, my lord.” 

“I will call a Landsmeet, a gathering of all Ferelden’s nobility in Denerim. There we will decide, one way or another, who will rule.” Eamon straightened. “Then, the business of fighting our true foe can begin. What say you to that, my friend?” He looked back at Surana. She stared at him for a moment. “I do not wish to proceed without your blessing.” 

“My blessing?” Surana repeated. “I’m a _mage_ ,” she reminded everyone. “And an _elf_. What does my blessing have to do with the price of antivan silk?”

“All that aside, none of this would be possible without you. You lead Alistair here, you saved my life with the Urn of Sacred Ashes and protected my wife and son. It is your lead I follow.” Eamon’s smile was gentle. “I am a credibly enough figure in this nation to call the Landsmeet, but I hold no illusions that I could face Loghain without you. Surely, you see that.”

“I…” Surana swallowed and felt the weight of Thedas on her skinny shoulders. “Very well. I say we proceed with your plan.” 

“I will send out the word. Now, onto other matters: there is the subject of my son’s . . . tutor. The mage. I understand he still lives?” 

Surana’s blood went icy.

“Yes, brother.” Teagan said. “He’s in the dungeon.” 

“Bring him before me.” 

A pair of guards walked out of the room and Surana listened to the sound of their armor long after it was down the stairs. She took a shaky breath and only looked up again when Jowan, chained and underfed, was brought into the hall. 

She felt like she was listening to Eamon from the bottom of a lake and would have been perfectly willing to let the words wash over her, unable to change Jowan’s fate until Eamon addressed her once again. 

“I’m . . . could you…” 

“Have you anything to say on Jowan’s behalf,” Eamon repeated. 

Surana looked over and met Jowan’s expression. He looked more broken and frightened than she had ever seen him, but he was meeting his fate with dry eyes and his chin up. She would have been proud if it hadn’t been so painful to see. 

“Jowan is . . .” she swallowed. “He was a good man, your grace, and a friend. He has co-operated willingly and I believe he is earnest in his desire to repent. Jowan is many things, but he’s not malicious or cruel. He’s just . . . he was wrong.” 

“Well said, you show more loyalty than perhaps he would in your shoes.” 

The word _loyalty_ struck her like a blow. 

“What would you have me do?” Eamon asked. “As the injured party, my ability to see the merciful path is . . . strained.” 

“Let him go? Let the Circle hunt him if they wish?” Surana bit down on her lower lip the moment the words were out. That was _never_ going to happen. 

“I cannot. He is a maleficar and I cannot release him on my lands, already ravaged by chaos and death, I’m sorry.”

Surana nodded with acceptance. “I know.” 

“Jowan,” Eamon turned his attention back to the mage. “I will return you to the Circle of magi. You will remain in the cells until the templars arrive. I will send them word tonight.” 

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” Jowan was shaking. “And you, Neria.” 

“Jowan I--I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright, Neria. It’s better this way.” He tried to smile as he was lead away again. 

She swallowed hard but forced her expression back to neutral when she looked back up at Eamon. “When will you call the Landsmeet, your grace?”

“I will begin preparation immediately, but it will take time to call my knights back and we dare not move without them. In the meantime, I suggest you continue your work with the treaties. We will need all the allies we can gather against the darkspawn.” 

“I’ll head for Orzammar in the morning then,” Surana pushed away from the table and rose to standing. Alistair and Teagan rose at the same time out of concern and respect respectively. “Thank you, your grace. If you will excuse me, I’m . . .” 

“Of course.”

* * *

Surana watched the ceiling as the night grew darker. Jowan would be returned to the Circle where the _kindest_ possibility was that he would be locked in solitary for the rest of his life. More likely he would be made tranquil. He would be blamed for Uldred’s treachery, even though he had nothing to do with it. 

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. 

Jowan was an idiot. He had become a blood mage, poisoned Arl Eamon and betrayed everything they had ever been taught. 

But he was her friend. For years he had been her _only_ friend. 

She rolled out of bed and tugged on a night shift. Holding a small contained flame in her hand she crept down the hall to the room Zevran had been given. She knocked once and a second later the door opened and Zevran had a cocky smile on his mouth and a knife to her throat. 

The knife dropped away immediately, the smile shifted slightly more apologetic. “I admit, I thought it was Alistair’s bed you’d be slipping into.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Not that I blame you as such.” 

Surana shook her head., her usual good humor missing. “I need your help.” She swallowed. “Bring your lockpicks.” 

Zevran raised an eyebrow, clearly confused, but rather than asking he simply grabbed his tools and his pants and followed her down to the dungeons, keeping to the shadows as they avoided the sparse guard patrols and the few servants still awake. 

At any other time, her plan might have been impossible, but with the only prisoner a sullen mage, and so few of Redcliffe’s knights remaining, the prison was unprotected. No one wanted to leave just one guard with a blood mage and there weren’t enough men to be spared. 

Zevran picked the lock on Jowan’s cell with minimal difficulty and stood back as the door swung open and Surana knelt down on the straw beside her sleeping friend. She put a hand over his mouth and one on his shoulder so he couldn’t scream or jolt when he woke. 

Jowan’s confused squawking was muffled behind her hand. 

“Ssh,” she shook her head and pulled away, offering her hand to pull him to standing. “You need to go. Now.” 

“Wha--”

“Arl Eamon’s going to return you to the Circle. If you leave now you’ll have a _chance_.” 

“Neria, I can’t just--” 

Surana’s jaw set and her eyes narrowed in the flickering torchlight. “ _Now_ Jowan. Before they notice I’m not in my room.” 

“What if you get caught?” 

She shrugged and tried to affect nonchalance. “They have bigger problems than one mage. I just saved the Arl’s life, I don’t care if there’s bad blood between me and the Guerrins for the rest of time, Jowan. We’re even, you and I. Run.” 

Jowan nodded. “Thank you.” He pulled her into a hug. “Be safe.”

“It’s just an archdemon, Jowan. How bad could it be?” 

Jowan escaped out the secret tunnel that lead through the mill and Surana watched him go, trying to balance what her conscience said was right against what she’d been taught her whole life. She was finally what Greagoir had suspected, the accomplice of a blood mage. 

“Neria?” 

“Zev?” She replied quietly. 

“We should hurry back up stairs. As you so wisely suggested.” 

“Y-yeah.” 

“Why me?” Zevran asked as they crept back the way they had come. “Why not Leliana?” 

“Leliana wouldn’t have approved. Neither would anyone else.” Surana shivered in her shift and combed a nervous hand through her wild red hair. “He’s a _maleficar_ ,” the word still tasted foul on her tongue. “He poisoned Arl Eamon. It would have been _just_ to let Teagan execute him.” 

“So why didn’t you?” 

“I might be as callow as Sten suspected,” she shrugged. “Jowan’s the closest thing to family I’ve ever had. I met him my first day in the tower. I couldn’t just leave him to rot. He’ll . . . either surivive or he won’t. The templars can’t track him and he’s not . . . he’s not malicious. Jowan’s just--”

“Stupid?” 

“Excruciatingly so.” Surana huffed. “Thank you, Zevran. You’re a real friend. I needed this.” 

Zevran looked taken aback for a moment, but then a smile passed over his mouth and he nodded. “Of course. What are friends for? Particularly the terribly handsome ones?”

“Goodnight, Zev. We’ve got a long walk tomorrow, provided Isolde doesn’t kill me.” 

“If _Teaghuan_ doesn’t get there first, you mean?” Zevran said with a wicked smirk. “They will have to go through me.”


End file.
